Uncontrollable
by lilli claire
Summary: AU. Lestrade is an officer who keeps having to pick up young Sherlock for drugs.


Officer Lestrade walked into the police station expecting a tatted up little punk with a backwards hat and pants around his ass. Instead, the sight that greeted him was a pale, skinny seventeen-year-old boy, with thick dark curls, bags under his eyes, in tight pants an a baggy shirt that were covered in dirt from being pushed around on the street.  
"I'm officer Lestrade. What's your name, kid?" Lestrade asked, staring into the boy's dilated pupils.  
"Sherlock. And I don't want to go to jail." Sherlock pleaded with the officer.  
"Well, considering it's your first offense, and it's not a violent crime, I think you can be let off easy. I'll drive you home." Lestrade grabbed the keys to the squad car and helped Sherlock into it. On the way to Mycroft's house, Sherlock deduced that Lestrade was frustrated. The crinkles on his forehead were starting to show, and his hair was visibly spotted with grey, but he was only about thirty. Problems at home? No, much more… concentrated… than that. Children? No, too young for his kids to start giving him problems, Sherlock guessed they were around ten-years-old. Sherlock deduced that it was sexual, wife not giving him what he needed. He watched the way the older officer's soft muscles moved with his sleeves, the way his legs pushed lightly down on the gas pedal, the way his sexy lips moved when he spoke. He watched the tongue that occasionally came out to flick at those lips, another sign of stress. He felt his cock harden in his pants, and honestly didn't give a shit whether Lestrade saw.  
"Do you know the long-term effects of drugs, kid?" Lestrade questioned, glancing at Sherlock, who averted his gaze to the roof of the car in an effort to keep it unknown that he was staring.  
"Stop calling me kid." Sherlock snapped, "just because you haven't gotten laid in three months doesn't mean you can treat me like I'm one of your little criminals."  
"How…?" Was it really that obvious that he needed to fuck someone, anyone?  
"The way you lick your lips every few seconds indicates frustration and arousal, your tight grip on the wheel is a clear sign it's affecting you, and has been for a while." Lestrade tried to cover the pink on his face with his shirt collar, but realized it was dark and Sherlock couldn't see it anyway.  
"Wrinkled shirt, haven't been home in a few days, and when you are home you only stay to shower and shave, then right back to work." Sherlock decided to focus on another part of the officer, insinuating that no, he hasn't been checking him out.  
"You don't blink as often as you should, you've been looking at computer screens all day, every day for the past three months, desk work."  
Lestrade was dumbfounded. The kid was high as a kite and observed all that about him.  
"What else can you do?" Lestrade wondered out loud if Sherlock was some kind of super-genius, the kind that are in college before pre-k.  
"I'm not a fucking superhero, Lestrade, I'm simply a person who doesn't settle for being stupid along with the rest of the world."  
Sherlock went back to watching Lestrade, and Lestrade went back to pretending he didn't notice the horny kid next to him. They arrived at Mycroft's house to find it empty.  
"You can go back to the police station now, I'm fine."  
"I just picked you up for drugs, and you want me to leave? I'm not going anywhere, I'm waiting right here until your brother gets home."  
With each passing moment Sherlock's head filled with more images of Lestrade, each filthier than the last. Being grabbed so hard that bruises formed on his smooth porcelain skin, being handcuffed and fucked with the officer's nightstick. He knew it was uncontrollable hormones, but by now he was hard and desperate. He shifted a little on the couch, crossed his legs, laid on his stomach, anything to try to hide his massive erection from Lestrade. It was really annoying him. He probably wouldn't be able to hold out very long, the way his tight pants were rubbing against his cock, why did he ever think those were a good idea? With every little shift of his hips his leaking cock was rubbed more and more, and it hurt. Where the fuck was Mycroft? Sherlock shifted a little more, his cock leaking precum like a waterfall. It was starting to show through his pants. Just then he heard Mycroft's car pull up to the house, and a few seconds later he walked through the door. Sherlock ran to the nearest bathroom with a lockable door and locked himself in. He frantically pulled his pants off, his hand accidentally brushing against his cock as he did so, and he had to bite back a loud moan. He could hear Mycroft and Lestrade talking downstairs, and he judged that they were in mid-conversation, not about to stop anytime soon, so he had enough time. He rubbed his cock hard and fast, not wasting any time with theatrics, he just wanted to get off. He stroked faster, bottom lip between his teeth, breathing heavily, thrusting his hips into his hand. It felt so good, every time his hand reached the base of his cock he'd extend his thumb and stroke his balls, letting out a soft gasp each time. Before long he came all over his hand, shooting across his stomach, dripping down his cock. He was arching his back and gasping for air, his dark curls drenched in sweat and his face a smooth rosy color. He sat on the counter until his skin wasn't as warm and his breathing returned to normal, splashed water on his face, changed his clothes, and went back downstairs. Mycroft was waiting to give him a lecture, not about wanting Sherlock to be safe and healthy, but not wanting the police to have to bring him home at all hours of the night. He tuned it all out and fell asleep on the couch. He dreamed up all kinds of ways to meet Lestrade again.


End file.
